


STAR WARS: ASCENDANCE (High Quality Story Art in certain chapters)

by Cinister1



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Action/Adventure, Comedy, Drama, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-05-02 15:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14547924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinister1/pseuds/Cinister1
Summary: A dangerous force-user, hidden away in a remote region of space, escapes First Order captivity to claim the mantle of apprentice from Kylo Ren. His journey takes him to a backwater planet void of many of the technological conveniences of daily life. It is here, placed in the company of a GCW veteran and his mute grandson, that his true trial begins. Pursued by a brilliant hunter and his ragtag band of mercenaries, the force-user is soon placed on a collision course with his merciless rival, where he must decide once and for all which destiny is worth fighting for. The one he wants, or the one he finds.





	1. MAIN TITLE

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=6&v=IBtBaa9HbAQ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=6&v=IBtBaa9HbAQ)

 

 

 


	2. PROLOGUE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young boy wakes to a fractured memory and a sinister presence.

 

   ** _A flash of fields._**

**_An echo of laughter._ **

**_Hands framing a face._ **

**_Dire pleas to stop._ **

**_Fade of black._  **

 

  
A gasp rippled the darkness. Deep, rasping. Lungs sought oxygen as though starved of it for days, urging suctioning breaths that sank through teeth and throat, and inflated them with rapid successions. Upon each second, their volume grew, interchanging with brief, congested whimpers that carried the struggle of an adolescent boy. Consciousness struck him with cruel instantaneity, sprawling the lids of his eyes to their extent, as fear and uncertainty quickly blossomed at their cores. With a shooting rise, his small torso sprung from the cold floor in a disoriented panic of guarded limbs, as if someone reeled back to continuously strike him. Yet, the strikes never came, and it was only after acknowledging that fact, that another became readily apparent.

  
  
His hands, his arms, they were right there in front of him, except they weren’t. He could not perceive their shape, even as he waved his fingers vigorously in front of his face. The boy’s gaze now darted from point to point, urgently searching for something to recognize, something to take form, but could discern only nothingness. He tried to blink hard, to force his vision to adjust and add some measure of visibility, but still found it lost in the complete absence of light. It was as though the world around him had warped into shadows so deep, there was no difference between looking out and shutting his eyes. A paralyzing hurt enveloped the child at this grim revelation, shackling his body with inaction that stemmed from panic.  
  
  
Seconds ticked to minutes, and minutes into time that could not be quantified within the impervious black. Had he been blinded? The thought accelerated inside his head, allowing anxiety to fuel his skin to crawl, burn, anything but remain still. Spurred from necessity, his breathing intensified, drawing more thick and stagnant air into his mouth, drying his already parched lips and leaving a dusty taste on his tongue. The spills of impacted breath continued without destination, until the boy knew that if it didn’t stop, his body would forfeit to the frenzy of emotions, and ultimately, life altogether. Squeezing his fingers into air-tight fists, the boy finally endeavored to gain some semblance of composure.  
  
  
Gathering what he could of his resolve, he tried to will his breathing to slow, to halve each exhale at its source, but found the task strangely difficult. A feverish haze lingered on the crevice of his mind like a bank of fog, limiting its processes to bare increments of what they should be. His body slacked at each attempt of movement, slowed by a ponderous laze that contrasted the weightless drifting of his head, as if it could float away if he didn’t secure it with both hands. It was a confusing form of confinement, one he attributed to being drugged or poisoned.  _Is that what has happened to him_? The boy dared to wonder; knowing the possible cost such thinking could pose to his already fragile state.

  
  
_How did this happen?_  Another question appeared as the floodgates of his mind sprung free with paranoia, twisting in his gut like a vibroblade, and edging ever closer to piercing his sanity.  _When did it happen?_  The mental blade slit further. The helplessness of the circumstance only now truly began to take root, levying an unsustainable pressure upon the child’s shoulders that heaved down as if gravity, itself, had betrayed him. Tears of dismay formed and led streaks down his features, dripping silently with a pain that only seemed to fester. The realization that he could die here became more than just surreal, it became likely, and it was that notion that urged his blood to pump faster than it ever had before, resonating thumps of his heart so loud and violent, that he could hear their thunder in his ears. He hated this feeling, to be this trapped, this violated. He just wanted it to stop…he wanted to go hom…

  
  
A pause in the boy’s thinking affixed him from his ailments, if only for a short time. He probed his memories for the answer that should’ve come easily, but drew a blank for all his effort. He had a home, he was sure of it…wasn’t he? A sickening feeling polluted his stomach with knots, while angst sent his adrenaline surging the length of his veins. He couldn’t recall it, he couldn’t recall anything, not even his own name, and the more he tried, the worse the sickness became. It wrenched mercilessly, swallowing him in a twist of circles that only abated when he did the same.  
  
  
It was then that what hope he had managed to sustain felt especially distant, destined to fade and disappear somewhere among the shadows with him. With a weary head falling low to his knees, the boy’s breaths shallowed. Not in fatigue, but submission. He had no memories of who he was or how he came to be here , and to even try and recall them was punished viciously by his own mind. He knew the wrong of his displacement, but was unaware how. It was those facts that cemented his isolation, and it was the finality of their acceptance that brought on something unexpected of the void, something that before then didn’t seem possible. It brought a response.

  
  
"What's wrong, child?" The gaunt voice came from within the vast emptiness, carrying from every angle with booming acoustics, as if transmitted through an intercom. “Why do you submit so easily?” It inquired further, a near hypnotic blend of power and intimacy forging its tone. The boy spurred back to life, his mouth jittering agape, but unable to compose words. Like a scarce rodent, he retreated, leaping to his back as his legs and elbows scurried him away. For one long, quiet moment, he kept motionless, more still than stone. His palms clasped the entirety of his nose and mouth in order to help retain breath, forcing them to conceal his location, even if it meant slipping back into unconsciousness. “There’s no need to run from me, boy. I will do no harm.”

  
  
The boy refrained from answering at first, believing it smarter to remain silent until whoever was here with him departed, but those feelings were fleeting at best. Revisiting his previous thoughts of being drugged or poisoned slowly turned what was once fear into something more profound. Defiance swelled in him like a thruster before the launch, as if recognizing that there was opposition to be dealt with, and that facing it felt more than right, it felt natural. "W-Who are you? Why am I here?!" The boy lashed out, recalling for the first time that he possessed the ability to speak.

  
  
"Answer, child, and you will know all you seek, and if willing, **_much_  **more." The voice appeased, still unrepentant in its ominousity, but oddly comforting as well. It hinted of an attainable trust, an instant sort of familiarity that made the boy not just consider an answer, but yearn to give one. "Why do you submit?"

  
  
"I-I can’t see. I don’t…know  ** _who_**  I am… ** _where_**  I am." The boy released a low mutter, barely resonating above a whisper.

  
  
"So you submit, is that it? You need a name and place in order to know who you are?” The response came quizzically, but also poised, as though the owner intended to make a statement that sounded like a question.

  
“Shut up!” The boy growled, his demeanor slowly shifting to aggression. “You did this, didn’t you! You put me in this darkness to torture me!”

  
  
“The darkness tortures you? What if I told you that you had been in this place for many hours now, and had endured no harm that could be had. What then would you think of it?” The voice allowed a moment for his words to be pondered, before continuing. “The feelings that maim you now originate from ignorance. You fear what is unknown, and in turn, it is that fear that destroys you. You fear me now because you cannot perceive me, but what makes you believe I can see you?”

  
  
The point was not just enlightening; it was truthful, which would’ve carried more weight had the boy not sensed a manipulative undertone. Still, he couldn’t see the voice’s owner, not even remotely, and he imagined it was the same way for him. Even the galaxy’s nocturnal species would be hard-pressed to find vision in such a shade. “You can’t.” The boy allowed a cautious consent, squinting into the shadows again to confirm his theory, and seemingly oblivious to the fact that his nerves had calmed from the maelstrom they had been.

  
“And if I cannot see you, how then can I harm you?” The voice added.

  
  
“You can’t.” The boy repeated, his previous anger succumbing more and more to reason, and the suspicious wisdom being given to him.

  
  
“Correct. For this is not my darkness to command, but your own. I have merely bonded your consciousness to mine, to serve as guide to what is to come. We now stand inside a manifestation of what lies beneath us all. That which most keep hidden for worry of judgment. Anger. Hate. Fear. Their roots grow here, and it is they that cripple you with haze and weaken your resolve. For now, are unfit of their potency, but they wait for you still, ever patient, ready to be tended, and in time, blossom. You need only give them the opportunity, and welcome the fruits they will bare for you.”

  
  
“Bonding consciousness...w-what are you saying?” The boy pleaded, confused, and still weary of the voice's motivations to seemingly aid him. How could someone do such sorcery as what was being claimed? Was it really possible, or had he somehow lost all traces of mental stability?

  
  
The gaunt voice released a low, guttural chuckle, as if the answer was obvious. “I am saying that if you wish to see,  ** _then see_**. Focus. You have immense power inside you, and it has slept long enough. Awaken it, boy. Immerse yourself. You hate what has happened to you, then use that hate to drive you, to enact change. Bind it with your anger and take control!”

  
  
The boy’s brow unbalanced, his face becoming crinkled with trepidation, and yet, somehow, in the recesses of his mind, he wholly believed what was being said. He knew there was something inside of him, he could feel it now, flowing like a tide of waves, like another extension of himself that had been dormant until made aware of it. Sinking his eyes shut, the boy searched within, guiding every fiber of his being to seek out the source of the sleeping power, knowing every second he spent brought him closer to understanding it. “I-I feel it...” He murmured, his voice stricken with an exalted awe. This surge of feeling, whatever it was, not only exuded the instant comfort that had he had prayed for the moment he awoke, it embodied it. He could  _ **see**_  now, not through his physical sight, but through the eyes of something infinitely greater. He watched hazy shapes that seemed far away and up close all at once, hearing their jumbled lines of speech as clearly as his own words. There were billions of them, even more, human and not, savage creatures and sentient lifeforms blessed by brilliance. So different in variance, but all connected by this power. The boy knew now, knew of information that he shouldn't, that he had been freed from what was recognized as living, while left untouched by death. He had unbound from the vessel of his body, and yet he remained himself. It was as though he was set adrift into an ocean of conscious life, wading through layers of start and end, of knowledge and experience. Their many streams began here, converged here, and finished here, all feeding into a grander form that transcended the limitations of thought and imagination. These were mere windows to what it was, tools to give shape and origin to something beyond simplifying. 

 

“Yesss.” The voice gave a seductive approval, as if deftly aware of the connection between the boy and his power growing stronger and more defined.“You have found your power, child. Now impel your influence upon it. Take hold of your darkness and command it!” His tone rang out, engaged, yearning for more strides to be made.

  
  
The veil of shadows now moved all around the boy in the guise of vaporous tendrils, slithering over top one another like a pit of serpents. Gradually, the boy returned to gasping, but unlike before, it brimmed from excitement. His every sense keened with an omnipresence that was sharper and more vivid than anything he’d ever dared imagine. The veil then broke from its slither and ascended to the greatest of heights, climbing high into the emptiness where it stalled and spun, encasing the child in the eye of a spiraling tower of onyx wind. Roars of motion absorbed all other sound, the twisting vortex becoming the darkness' only voice, all because the boy wanted it to. An innate animosity simmered upon his faculties, but he retained control, and the exhilarating emotion it brought forth from him was complete and utterly  ** _intoxicating_**. “How is this real?” He inquired to the voice, hoping with all his soul that what he was experiencing wasn’t some dream due to end an instant later.

  
  
“It is, boy. This is your gift. This…is The Force.” It finished.

  
  
“The Force?” The name stirred familiarity, its legend representing one of the things he could only vaguely, but not fully recall. Old stories of Jedi and Sith, good and evil, existing centuries before he was even born. It was folklore, theatrical tales told by parents before bed. Until now. “Are you a Jedi, a Sith?”

  
  
A knowing snicker echoed as a prelude to his reply. “There is so much more to the Force than those misguided religions. Shall I show you? Would you like to learn?”

  
  
Kneeling there, surrounded by a spinning marvel of his own conjuring, the boy had no need to think over his response. This ability, this  **gift** , it fulfilled him in ways he never knew he needed. It was more than intrigue that now tore at him, it was desperation, like a dire thirst needing to be quenched. He had to know more, to know  **everything**  about The Force, no matter the cost. “Yes!” He shouted, trying to elevate his words over the deafening swirls of momentum.

  
  
“Then it is time you joined the others.” The voice concluded, and upon the comment’s end, the tower of wind dispersed outwards with a calamitous crash. The boy reeled from the explosive boom ringing through the canals of his ears, until the empty silence returned to ease them. At the very edge of his vision, a doorway materialized and brought a beaming frame of ruby light that pained the child's eyes, but returned his sight and appearance to him. His light human skin, his bushy umber hair, the boy touched them as though they were expensive treasures to be cherished and never again forgotten. Raising his hand to his brow in an attempt to stare further at the emblazoned door, his eyes focused on something moving from the light. Standing there, appearing from the depths of its red luminescence, were three silhouettes, small and thin like...children? The corners of the door then expanded with a blinding flash, reaching out and beyond, swallowing the dark, and the boy within it.


	3. LOCKDOWN Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A secret First Order base is sent into turmoil from an unexpected enemy.

   

  ****

**CHAPTER ONE**

**PT. 1 of 4**

  **11 years later**

**1 year before the destruction of Starkiller Base.**

 

The Unknown Regions; An infinite expanse of uncharted seclusion found beyond the borders of the Outer Rim. There was no true fear of detection here, nor laws or concordances to be obeyed. It was these very reasons that made the territory ideal for the construction of the First Order's rise, as well as the initiatives that rose with it. Endeavors of a furtive nature, such as the one found an undocumented twenty parsecs from the immeasurably deadly Starkiller Base. There floated a ship in stasis, its appearance as common as a large scale freighter, designed for hauling commercial cargo by the ton. It's outer shielding fumed and sparked from a shredded crater of damage, displaying its vulnerability for all to see. However, ** _this_**  was deliberate.

  
On the outside, it assumed the identity of something lost; a scuttled ship or one incapacitated. Its purpose was to appear non-threatening to the eye, until it was too late for a scanner to discover the injuries were falsified; a clever aesthetic added to its core design. By then, the Black Freighter's long range turrets would've activated, having zeroed in on the intruding target, and obliterate it from existence. It was a necessary execution, one that did not require explanation, nor authorization to commit, and while the freighter's one rule was unspoken, it carried as loud and clear as any before it. No one could be allowed to see the ship and live to tell of it. 

  
Despite its unorthodox design, the base; itself; was not all that diverse from other First Order installations, constantly working in accordance with the processes and protocols set in place. Squads of Storm Troopers would depart daily for their designated rounds, patrolling the vacancy of the arching corridors with rarely a sign of issue. The talk found in the on-board barracks often centered on the topic of the assignment's blandness, as well the impressive drought of details that accompanied it. They understood the purpose of the vessel's deception, to fool any ships that might somehow wander by, Resistance or otherwise. Yet, what they couldn't seem to figure out was why go to such elaborate lengths? What made this place so special? They weren't guarding anything of known value, as the number of regiments was vastly smaller than such a duty would require. At most, they were a skeleton crew compared to other outposts, tallying just enough men to sustain operations. No one seemed to possess any real insight on why they were stationed here, as there simply wasn't enough substance for a rumor to even be formed, let alone grow and acquire belief. Some surmised only the vessel's commander wielded such privileged knowledge, and in some small way; that allowed the troopers a measure of peace.

  
_**Captain Vendol Warvane**_  was the unquestioned god among those aboard the Black Freighter, a living legend from an era of forgotten campaigns and visceral incursions. He was said to be more soldier than officer, and five minutes alone with the towering rogue would've more than strengthened such a notion. Often, he'd keep to a perpetual silence, lost between thought or concern, and only speaking to issue orders or should an important observation be needed. He first learned this consistent state of discipline during his service as a Death Trooper, the most elite operatives of the old Galactic Empire. He was a fresh face in those days, barely a man, but to take his age as a sign of inexperience would've arguably been a greater deception than the freighter itself. Warvane's training had seen whatever traces of humanity he might've possessed stripped away long before he donned his black helmet, making him more droid than anything else. Cold, compliant, and freed of empathy. Though Warvane accepted his role as Captain, and the responsibilities that came with it, never could he be seen wearing the official uniform. It was not quite spoken of why this was, but some guessed that he simply felt more accustomed to the rough texture of armor mesh, seen in his ebony ensemble reminiscent of his former armor.

  
Now a man in his 50's, the Captain had amassed a wealth of disfigurements that buried the youth he once knew, and molded it into the monster others accused him of being the second before he ended them. Scar tissue decorated his features in such varying degrees, that it stole all attention away from his face's natural characteristics. Looking beyond the healed markers of cuts and burns, one could remark Warvane's features as being sharply pensive. His cheeks sank inward, relaying more focus on their high bone structure, strong jawline; and cleft chin. A smooth, brown gleam reflected light from his domed head, that sat atop broad shoulders and a physique so defined with lean musculature; that it looked more rock than flesh.

  
Warvane's reputation first grew in the early conflicts of the First Order's formation, after having made the transition from Empire command. Records noted that he had been the sole survivor of an infiltration team, beset with the task of acquiring a data dossier of Resistance outpost coordinates. However, what the records didn't reveal, and what no documentation ever would, is how Warvane broke off from his squad as they neared their target, and stealthily continued alone. Having already voiced his concerns over a varying hole in their extraction plan prior to the mission, and unwilling to fall victim to ill-preparation, the Captain decided it best to improvise a new form of exit. Knowing where his team would be en route, Warvane sliced into a control console and purposely triggered the motion sensors of that sector; This directed attention to his teammates, and shortly trapped them in a choke point of blaster fire to which they were sacrificed.

  
As despicable of an act as it was, the betrayal was not without merit. The Death Troopers' proficiency in combat, even when ambushed, provided more than enough cushion in the new timetable to acquire the data; despite the base being on high alert. Like the Black Freighter, the remote location of the Resistance outpost and its minimal staffing was intentional. A calculated risk. Too many units of men would require more supply loads needing smuggled transport, which in turn, could attract attention if the ships are spotted in the same quadrant more often than normal. It was a thin line to walk when holding such critical information, but it was also a necessary one. Unfortunately, in this case, it was one of the few occasions secrecy and espionage worked against the party using it. After enemy contact was confirmed, protection protocols naturally went into place, sealing off access to entry doors and encrypting the software holding the data dossier, but that didn't worry Warvane in the least. His slicing skills had been top tier for years prior to then, and the soldiers flooding towards his insurgents allowed him to travel the opposite direction undetected, as well as grant him the time needed to quietly dispatch any stragglers and acquire the needed intel.

  
With the distraction reaching its climax, Warvane then took to foot in the encroaching jungle with the dossier in tow; until meeting at the extraction zone some kilometers later. Upon his return and debriefing, Warvane was rewarded a higher rank, as well as the honor of an audience with the Supreme Leader; himself. Through the Force, he undoubtedly saw the deception committed in his subordinate's mind; as though he had carried out the act with his own two hands. This fact, coupled with the Captain's merciless resolve to accomplish his goals apparently impressed Snoke, so much so that he was entrusted with numerous crucial field operations of the clandestine sort. Eventually, those operations earned his presence aboard the Black Freighter, as sole hierarchy; and keeper of its secret. Only he knew the actual function of the ship, that much was true, and it would be a topic only broached between he and Snoke in the most private and taciturn of conversations.

  
With his gaze closed to the stars, Vendol stood before the calm of space through the onboard viewport, his powerful arms bound at the back of his waist. This was his daily facade; appearing so composed, when many knew the temper that showed if matters didn't proceed as he intended. Engineers worked all around him, monitoring the freighter's internal systems at their reserved stations, and taking special care to be as quiet as possible. It was a mistake rarely forgiven to break the Captain's meditation with something like ignorant banter. Like the troopers below them on the other decks, they, too, were expected to follow his show of discipline in all aspects of their routine. This was not just an expectation, it was the law, and one that remained untested; Until now.

  
Alarms. Their cries dashed the silence of every corridor, stirring activity within the base so used to relative dormancy. Departments were notified that normally went unbothered while the ship was estranged in orbit. Off-duty personnel were roused by personal communicators in their muddled sectors, the majority of which were left questioning if this could be some kind of drill. With a subtle shift, Warvane's eyes awakened into a callous stare. "Report," he ordered.

  
Keying a series of buttons under their console's display screen in an attempt to clarify the problem, one engineer finally straightened up and addressed her superior with a prim response. "Sir, we have an unauthorized use of one of the turbolifts."

  
"Which lift?" Warvane demanded with no lack of urgency in his words.

  
The same engineer again pressed at the litany of buttons at their disposal, until the answer stalled her fingers and stung her lip with a quiver. Cognizant that what was about to be revealed wouldn't be pleasant, the engineer attempted to relay her response as calm and carefully as she could muster. "Designation #001. Your personal one, sir."

  
The Captain's reaction passed so quickly that a blink would've missed it altogether. It was an uncommon sight among those of the bridge, and one that brought an unexpected tinge of worry. Normally, his expression was statuesque, unchanging from the impassiveness that seemed to be etched into his bones. However, in that instant, Warvane's mind appeared to weigh on him even as it sharpened, whittling down the possibilities, but knowing only one could've been linked to his personal lift. The  **sole**  passage to the lower levels of the ship. It was a place no crew member aboard the Black Freighter had clearance to go, a restricted area of the highest regard, reserved for only he and...

  
"Lock down the ship!" Warvane commanded with an authoritative boom in his voice, nearly as loud as the alarm's blaring ruckus. Turning in place, his heavy frame stomped towards the entry door with angry purpose, making certain to deliver the one instruction he knew must reach every trooper's ears. "Alert all squads to canvas every level within proximity of the lift. Their orders are to  _ **STUN**_  any opposition."

  
"Sir," Another engineer spoke up from across the room, his expression as bewildered and uncertain as the others around him now looked. "if this is an attack, shouldn't the troopers utilize deadly force?"

  
"It isn't an attack!" Warvane barked as he left the room, finishing the statement under his breath, "it's an escape."


	4. LOCKDOWN Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Storm Trooper Squad 0-1-6 learns that the enemy they were searching for did not come from outside the freighter, but within.

**PT. 2 of 4**

 

The fast thudding of boots fell muted beneath the enclosed bluster of the alarms. The base had been placed on the highest alert, prompting the emergency lights to flash the walls with circulating patterns of red, demanding immediate response from all squads. Storm Trooper Squad #0-1-6 took the corner of the smooth, arcing corridor in an orderly alignment of two by two, urgency pushing the pace of their armored frames into a composed run. Word came from the bridge, broadcast over the internal com-links embedded in each trooper’s HUDs to search the areas surrounding the Captain’s elevator, and detailing that detainment protocols were to be exercised with no escalation in severity. It was news that was received with both an obedient acknowledgement, as well as a hidden degree of chagrin from 0-1-6’s Squad Commander, who tempered his opinion during the hard march. Weighing the facts, he believed he understood the presented logic well enough, but fully agreeing with it was another matter. 

  
The Black Freighter, for whatever unknown reason, was a covert site, and anyone that found it this far out in uncharted space, let alone infiltrated it, needed to be captured and interrogated on how they were able to do so. That aside, to handcuff the ones in charge of safe-guarding the facility could likely cost them unnecessary casualties in a skirmish. They didn’t know the enemy number, and if it was a strike team of modest size as some already suspected it to be, they would be at more of a tactical disadvantage than they should. Detainment protocols restricted retaliation to a limited arsenal of Stun weaponry, ranging from bolts to grenades. While these were effective in their own right, the opposition would have full access to any and all deadly means brought aboard, and unburdened of the necessity to spare lives. It was the equivalent of bringing a knife to a gun fight. 

  
However, that didn’t mean they were completely outmatched. The three troopers that accompanied their Commander each equipped the standard F-11D blaster rifle, heralded for its enhancements in both accuracy and power when compared to the old E-11 model, and one of which even carried a Z6 riot baton in case of close quarters melee. Though, the likelihood of needing  ** _that_  **particular weapon was minimal at best. Despite any personal discrepancies, the odds should still be in their favor with the other squads converging in the same area. While they may lose some men in the heat of any possible combat, they should ultimately win the exchange. A crackle of the com then brought a sudden signal to halt from the Squad Commander, as he sought to read the incoming transmission.

  
“This is STS 0-1-9. We have arrived at target locale with STS 0-1-1 and 0-0-8. Elevator is secured. We are preparing to investigate decks one through five and will need…” A sudden field of static distorted the message into fragments of speech. The Squad Commander tried to keen his ears and decipher what was trying to be said, but found it difficult. “It’s moving…the damn thing…coming up…from...lower levels!” The interference increased in hazy intervals, turning what was once jumbled, but audibly full words into halves of them. “Some…coms…wrong…inter…prep….en…gage.” The idea of jamming devices took form in the Commander’s thoughts as the perpetrator of the faulty connection, when repeating dings materialized vaguely on the other end of the com, symbolizing the elevator had unexpectedly begun its ascent.

  
_Ding_.

  
It was readily apparent now. Whoever had used the elevator for the commute to the lower levels, was not done with it yet.

   
_Ding._

  
Feeling a dire sense of priority urge him to act, the Commander quickly delivered the hand sign to move out. Squad 0-1-6 lunged in flock-like motion, moving with purpose, taking every corner with persistent speed and determination, and covering more and more ground with each stride. They had to hurry now, they had to be there to help repel whatever enemy absolved from the lift’s chamber. Still, as much as the Commander tried to tune out the sizzle of static and keep his mind focused on the coming battle, something felt increasingly odd about the strategy of the lift's occupants. When the alert first came and the orders were issued, most had assumed that whoever it was they would be hunting had snuck onto the freighter and accessed the vessel from the main deck, as that was where it was always positioned after Captain Warvane returned from his frequent visits down below. What they were seeking in the lower levels was a question best left for afterwards, with an answer they would probably never be privy to. However, the explanation needed sooner was why would someone necessitating stealth, and who knew they triggered the alarm on the way to lower levels, then use the same route out, knowing the bulk of the opposition would be waiting?

  
_Ding._

  
It was possible they didn’t know that the lift was the only access point to reach the lower levels, as all ventilation ducts were designed to never fit a full-sized man or droid, but wasn’t that something the Resistance would need to know before launching the operation? Even so, was there no contingency in place? No matter what logic he applied, it just seemed so unlike their enemy, so unforgivably  _sloppy._  Could they not see that no matter how many of them there were, the limited space would trap them in a kill box of their own making? It was almost as if they didn’t fear what the freighter could throw at them, and that was a dangerous sort of thinking. The slow trend of dings remained in effect as the Squad Commander came back to the present, playing one after another as what could be adhered as instructions of preparation were given in the scramble of white noise. 

  
_Ding._

  
It was then it happened. The prelude to the answer. A final ding sounded, slightly longer in duration than the rest, and the definitive cue of the elevator’s arrival from the belly of the ship.

  
**_DING._ **

  
The Squad Commander pressed his helmet closer to his ear and listened, having discerned the metallic slide of the doors retracting open. Through breathless pause, he hoped to hear a call of surrender from whoever occupied the lift’s cramped enclosure, believing it to be the only moral outcome for members of an army who boasted of the quality. The seconds ticked, yet still nothing could be ascertained. No hiss of blaster fire, no detonation of grenades, and the strangest of all, no chatter from the squads already on the scene. If the elevator had been empty as some sort of diversion, they would’ve surely reported it as soon as the vacancy was confirmed, but no, no word of confirmation, no words at all, only the quiet pitch of the com speaker spoke back to him.

  
The greater share of the silence the Commander took in, the more wrong it felt, as though so much was happening, but they simply couldn’t perceive it. In his mind, he pictured them all right there, standing in front of the lift, crouched in firing positions, but frozen by the fear of what they saw. This was only one of many scenarios that began to play out across his eyes, none of which lacked in dramatics, when finally, something rippled from the other end of the line, heard clearly in the new span of radio clarity. They were laborious sounds, loud cracking like that of grounding gravel, or snapping branches, and their presence only served to augment another more guttural noise of bellowing, like a growling stomach, or the bending of metal. What was this? 

  
Reaching the final stretch of hall before the elevator would finally be in view, Squad 0-1-6 readied themselves for confrontation. The com may’ve gone virtually dead, but that didn’t mean that everyone involved was. Continuing briskly to the last corner of the hall, The Commander took shelter behind the gentle curve of the wall, as the other troopers fell in behind him. Rather than risk a peek and conceivably give away their presence, the Commander again leaned in to listen. The previous sounds of the com had been brief, disappearing nearly a minute after their debut, but now all but the alarms remained silent.

  
Knowing that time was not a luxury, the Squad Commander exhaled a slow, dragging breath, freeing any anxiety that had been built up to that point, and tapped the ‘go’ sign against his red shoulder pauldron. The squad of Storm Troopers cleared the nearest corner with precision organizing their movements into strategic lines of sight, allowing clean windows of opportunity for their trained rifles to fire into. What was seen then could not have been expected, nor conceived, or even schemed for. It was a sight that steered the troopers from their scopes and into glances to each other, a means to ensure that they were all seeing the same thing.  ** _The Strike Team_**  was not a ** _team_**  at all, but remarkably, a single human male.  
  
  
His face, despite being dotted with a greasy residue of dirt, was young, lean, and well-structured, falling somewhere in the range of his mid-twenties. A wild mane of sable hair draped his scalp, hanging with generous slack to cover his entire brow, where his bangs, so layered and unkempt, drew comparisons to a Bantha in one trooper’s head. He dressed in onyx robes that hung limply from his body, oversized and excessively tattered at various angles, as if being tossed through a whirling ventilation fan before donning. The neckline of his worn outer tunic slouched to one side, appearing heavily stretched and exposing shoulder in its slumped state. What little of his physique could be observed through the multitude of torn fabric, was impressive, so carved with the veined musculature of youth, that his biceps, alone, looked as if they were in a constant state of flex. His bare feet stood under him, caked with a sooty layer of filth that improved his face by comparison, and completed the overall visage of a primitive being that appeared as more prisoner than intruder. With a brow lifted by the strength of his own shock, everything then became so very clear to the Commander. No one had taken the elevator down to the lower levels as he once thought. By slicing or some other method, someone,  ** _this_**  someone, had taken it up.

  
At the moment, his attention lay elsewhere, affixed on the lifeless husks of the first responders. The brutality Squad 0-1-6 saw then could not even be dampened by the tinted view of their visors. The corpses of the other troopers lay sprawled across different areas of the condensed hallway, broken in the most unnatural of ways. Legs were ripped from behind and hooked up over shoulders blades, necks snapped and twisted completely around to face their backs. One of the dead squad member’s helmets had been cast aside in the murderous assault, sitting only a few inches from its owner, and unable to hide the sheer horror he’d endured before death. His gaze spread wide, solidified with a fear that would forever haunt his features with the muscular stiffening of rigor mortis. His mouth gaped wide like a devouring serpent from a jaw shattered at its joints, where dying screams carried until his breath left him for the last time.

  
The Prisoner’s chest heaved without restraint above them, initially thought to be from the exertion of dispatching what should’ve been overwhelming odds, until closer observation revealed the terrifying truth. Every hard breath the male took stemmed from an adrenaline-fueled excitement, as though he was more refreshed, than tired. He’d reveled in the killing of his attackers with the same exuberance a child has for a new toy. But how? The question still floated unclaimed in the air like a moth. How could one unarmed man slaughter multiple trained squads of armed Storm Troopers? 

  
Having watched the aftermath of the horror that had transpired, and doing nothing in its wake to rectify it, the Baton Trooper allowed his foot to readjust on the slick floor out of growing discomfort, and in doing so, produced a squeak from the sole of his boot. The noise, however subdued, rippled down the corridor, its echo amplified by the enclosed proximity. Realizing what was to come, a simultaneous draft rose frigidly up each troopers’ spine, climbing the length of their vertebrae until their skin paled to the color of their armor, as the subtle shift in the Prisoner’s posture revealed that if he didn’t know of their arrival before, he did now.


	5. LOCKDOWN Pt. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Storm Trooper Squad 0-1-6 engages the strange prisoner In a desperate fight for their life.

**PART 3 of 4**   


The Prisoner’s head turned to them with a slow, almost agonizing share of patience. It was there that dark lashes framed his icy blue eyes in such a way that only intensified the feral nature of his stare. His pupils dilated with a microscopic shiver of exhilaration, like a starved beast within pouncing distance of its long-bated prey. They keened to Squad 0-1-6, who now squeezed at the dedlanite stocks of their rifles with a nerve-rattling clinch.

  
“Don’t move!” The Squad Commander barked through the resonance of his helmet, more out of some misguided guilt of inaction, than any sense of courage or duty. “Put your hands up or we will fire!” The Prisoner heard the blared ultimatum, but did not waver in his long, menacing assessment. Slow and calculating, he stood his ground as the most subtle of nodding circulated his gaze from one trooper to the next, over and over again. The act was not only brimming of defiance, but also ripened with uncertainty. Did he not realize what was said to him? Was he truly as primitive as he appeared? This was his life being threatened, not some game to be played…unless it was. The Squad Commander’s posture stiffened with revelation, as his eyes tracked the rhythm at which the man’s head bounced from each of them, so timed and familiar, that he berated himself for not recognizing it sooner. The Prisoner was indeed playing a silent game, using their lives as its set pieces, and that game was eenie-meenie-miney-mo. “FIRE NOW!” The Commander loosed a cry, so desperate in its making, that his men hurried an innate switch to lethal settings.

  
The rapid barrage of energized bolts ignited the corridor with pulses of glowing scarlet, flying in multitude as fingers compressed triggers without restraint. In that instant, the squad no longer cared about their orders, fear had freed them of all rational thought. The only thing that mattered now was getting off as many shots as they could before the power cells in their weapons depleted. The firing levied in full stream, filling the Prisoner’s direction with a swarm of projectiles that normally would’ve obliterated any soul in their path, had it not been for an unseen intervention. The bolts exploded from the tips of the rifles, flying with the deadly initiative that was expected of them, but only to a point. Once reaching a few feet from the Prisoner’s unmoving stance, they would go no further, suspended perfectly still in the air as if ensnared in some sort of invisible web.

   
The mouths of the troopers dropped agape under their helmets. They knew of this sorcery, touted as a talent used only by the Master of the Knights of Ren. Yet, that had been mere rumor, to see it in person, as they did now, revealed the true magnificence of the act in a way that no grouping of words ever could. Never had either member of the squad imagined they would witness such an incredible feat as this, and in the deepest spaces of their hearts, as bitter reality offset the majesty of the moment, they now knew it would be the last sight they ever saw. The Prisoner’s breathing now quickened with an exasperated depth, as his eyes began to flash between silvery blue and a chemical swirl of red and yellow that never solidified, making him appear even more bestial than ever before. With a rising flick of his fingers, the bolts spun and reversed course, their trajectory altered towards the two Rifle Troopers off to the side. Words at last formed in the Prisoner’s lips, and in their parting, left behind the most insidious of smiles. “Mo.”

  
With a piercing thrum, the bolts launched, seeking the pair of troopers like a swarm of kinetic javelins. Their bodies flailed with a wild flimsiness, freeing their weapons of their grips as each projectile detonated into them, casting flashes of brightened sparks and plumes of smoke that clouded that region of the hall. The pair roared in one anguished throat, ringing so loud and deep into the com that the others felt their ears pop. When the last bolt struck, and death’s mercy finally ushered in, the troopers collapsed to the floor in a vaporous heap of mangled armor and flickering embers, spared of any further torment yet to come. Pressing his advantage in the surmounting confusion, the Prisoner breached the dispersing veil of smoke with a lancing step, kicking one leg off the wall to propel the other into an acrobatic collision with the Baton Trooper’s chest plate. The impact hit with a bludgeoning thump, careening the trooper into the wall behind him, where he came down in a slouch of daze.

  
Knowing the other two were lost to this world, the Prisoner then focused his sole attention on the Squad Commander, who’d just returned to his feet from an evasive dive of the bolt swarm. With paced steps, the Prisoner came to meet him with his arms at his side, and the same sinful smile adorning his mouth, daring his opponent to make the first move. Out of raw anger or fear, the Commander took the invitation, throwing aside his blaster rifle and hooking a hard swing for the Prisoner’s jaw that missed when he stepped out of range. Coming out of his swing, and knowing it didn’t land, the Commander quickly re-positioned his feet and reversed his hips in the opposite direction, swinging with his left fist this time, that again missed its mark, but prompted no retaliation. The theory of a game being played resurfaced, but only served to enrage the Commander more, as he now began to bomb combinations of jabs, hooks, and overhands, all of which either didn’t connect or were blocked with a perfectly-timed forearm or elbow. 

  
Battered, but still poised to fight, the Baton Trooper struggled to stance at the Prisoner’s back, where he concealed the magnetized grip of his riot baton and whirled it into activation. Pushing off from the wall, the trooper spun the baton again to readjust the angle and lunged, rushing a strike for the rear of their attacker. As if sensing the imminent threat without offering so much as a glance to confirm it, the Prisoner shifted out of aim with an adeptly-balanced spin, just as the pulsing conductor vanes veered past him and straight into the stomach of the Squad Commander.A bright citron field was suddenly thrust upon the Commander’s frame, rattling it as the electrical currents conducted through his limbs, contracting his muscles in a searing flow of convulsion that didn’t subside until the building charge propelled him to the ground.

  
Horrified by his mistake, the Baton Trooper was unable to react in time to the Prisoner as he spun out from his dodge, and with an open palm, stilled him just as he rebounded for another attempt. The change came quick, almost instant, save for a subdued jerk before the paralytic state solidified. The Commander watched from the floor, his mind fractured with equals parts pain and fatigue, but still lucid enough to understand what he witnessed was no hallucination. The Baton Trooper was as immobilized as he now was, only by differing means. Pleaful moans filtered low and gravelly through a mouth that refused to work, seemingly crippled by nothing more than a gesture of the hand. Seeing the act with his own eyes now explained why the first responders never fired a single shot when the elevator opened, why they didn’t offer a reprisal as they were slowly broken into inhuman shapes. They couldn’t. He wouldn’t let them. 

  
From the very start of this, they were matched against an enemy far beyond them, the likes of which they were never trained to withstand, and there was never more proof of this than when the Prisoner snapped the Baton Trooper’s neck with a simple swipe of his fingers. Watching his victim fall limp against the slickness of the wall and collapse under his own weight, brought an apparent measure of satisfaction to the Prisoner. He paused, analyzing his handiwork in the same way he was doing to the prior squad when the current one arrived. He’d disposed of them efficiently, the way he’d been taught to, and even managed to have some fun in the process. Yet, the window for enjoyment had closed now. He had to hurry before reinforcements filled the halls to capacity. Turning from the slain troopers, the Prisoner paid them no more regard than one would trash on the street, and was about to lean into a sprint when he noticed something forgotten.

  
The Commander stifled as the Prisoner’s predatory gaze sank to him, still beaming with a narcotic shiver. The fear he felt then was worse than any he could ever recall. Worse than the first time he’d been fired on, and had to return fire. Worse than the cruel examples made of those who didn’t comply with Captain Warvane’s demands. It numbed him, even as his every instinct screamed for self-preservation. His legs, his arms, they were as stone. 

  
In desperation, he smothered his breathing, thinking that if he held his breath long enough, no one would suspect he was still alive. The Prisoner was standing over him now, one foot on each side of his torso, undaunted, unamused, and above all else, undeceived. His hand went to his hip with a gradual sway, searching under the flap of his overlong robes until finding what he needed. Weighed in his grip was a cylinder-shaped item, ebony dark with slots of faded gray steel that extended down its length to the circular base. Shrouded smaller shafts hooked over a larger central opening like horns, both reversed in direction with a slight upward tilt. It was a sight known to legends, and all who passed them on from generation to generation. A lightsaber hilt.

  
A gleaming red blade jettisoned from one end, spitting miniature versions from the tips of the hooking shafts that bathed the Prisoner’s already malevolent appearance with a hellish ruby glow. For a fleeting second, he looked to the pillars of blistering plasma and examined them with almost child-like awe, as though in some estranged way, he was endeared to its presence, and grateful for it. He twirled the saber twice in his hand in the most casual of manners, reacquainting himself with the feel of the weapon, when on the third twirl, the saber went high with a zipping hum, gaining height as its wielder’s smile gained teeth.The Commander felt death close in on him, sealing his breath deeper into his lungs with a sunken gasp. Panic took him, protesting for action that couldn't be completed. Out of pure survival instinct, he closed his eyes and threw one hand up in front of him as though to defy his fate and shield himself from the killing strike.

  
The Prisoner’s posture then released, hacking downward with the force and speed of a guillotine, when it suddenly bucked, falling just short of severing the Commander’s hand at the wrist. A flicker of something brought the Prisoner’s eyes to yield, so brief in duration that he questioned if it happened at all. His stare hardened on the storm trooper’s defense with accusatory heat, believing he was behind the image’s emergence, until closer inspection proved this incorrect. It was something about the way the Commander cowered before him, the slant of the arm, the way the hand spread wide in front of him, it felt more than just familiar, it screamed to be remembered. He could never have distinguished the flicker in whole, and to even venture a guess would’ve been a long shot of the greatest distance, but despite that, the Prisoner couldn’t fight the idea that for the length of that instant, it almost looked like a child’s bloody face. A child he once knew...

  
It was only after an inordinate amount of time had passed that it occurred to the Commander that pain had not overtaken him. Just seconds prior to then, he was on the precipice of joining the other troopers in oblivion, and yet, he still drew breath. Gathering what last vestiges of will he possessed, the Squad Commander risked an opening of his eyes to investigate, and saw that while  _he_  still remained among the corpses of the hall, the Prisoner did not.


	6. LOCKDOWN Pt. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Prisoner engages the imposing Captain Warvane on his way to escape the Black Freighter and continue his mission.

  **PART 4 of 4**

 

 The Prisoner cleared the corner with urgency hastening his pace like accelerant to flames, each stride moving longer and more quickly than the last. Shame clinched his face into a scowl that gave form to the anger he suppressed within. He'd been foolish to waste so much time dispatching the storm troopers, and even more so in exerting himself in the process. Overindulgence. It had always been his cardinal sin. Already he could hear the words springing from his Lord's lips with sharp, piercing criticism. Every syllable stinging like a hundred thorns of admonishment.

  
_"Always remember, my children, do not drink too greedily from the well of the Force. It will stricken you, urge your favor again and again, as you will become reliant on its influence, and in turn, suffer under it. While the true power of the Force can only be attained through the Dark Side, it is not without its weaknesses. It proffers immense possibilities, but lacks vitality. It will drain your strength until even your anger will no longer fuel it. It will cloud your mind and demand your wrath, even when sparing your enemy, if only momentarily, will better aid your cause. To give yourself over to it completely, without the tutelage to guide you, is to invite your own destruction. It is because of this reason that discipline must become more than a necessity, it must become innate."_

  
The wisdom was as true then as it was now, and yet, somehow he always found himself punished for disobeying it. Almost concurrently, the Prisoner felt his head start to fog, as his legs went rubbery. He'd reached deep into the Force in such a short time, and the journey's perils were starting to take their toll. The elevator trip from the lower levels was the first heavy blow. While to lift an entire structure was possible for those trained in the Force, that didn't mean it was easy. For it to move, your mind must will it to, as well as keep it moving for as long as needed. Sustaining one's concentration was vital in this process, and a single falter under the elevator's immense weight would've meant a fast plummet into the afterlife.

  
The second challenge followed almost immediately after the first, coming in the form of the ambush party that awaited him. To halt one person, even two, was child's play, but an entire squad more than tested his will, it fractured it. He had to reach even further after the other squad appeared and peppered him with their barrage. He could've drawn his saber then, he should have, but chose theatrics over skill instead, and was now paying for the abuse. He wasn't strong enough yet to utilize the Force in such an exuberant display without consequence, and admitting it did nothing to ease the contempt for his own recklessness, which would've continued if not for...

  
The Prisoner shrugged, unwilling to allow his thoughts to slip back to what happened with the last trooper, but found the issue to be persistent. What had he seen? A wraith, a reminder of all he endured? That person, if you could even call it that, was one he hadn't thought about in years, assumed forgotten, until it wasn't.  _The boy who awoke to darkness._  It was a face so profound to see after so long, a face forfeited of weakness for the chance at a grander future. 

  
It was that same future that the Prisoner purchased through blood and death. But was it still his? That question drove all this to be, it forced his hand to betray the one that fed him, that taught him, and above all else, promised him. It would be kept, either given or taken, this, the Prisoner declared. He would do it the way he was told, he would find the ones withholding what is rightfully his, and make their suffering legendary.

  
_"You are the last of The Anointed, the sole victor, but you still have one final test before you. We have spoken of your past, but are you strong enough to overcome it? This remains to be seen. You know your targets. When the time is right, you will find them, you will know them, and you will end them. And upon their demise, you will be worthy of my promise, child. You will be worthy of the duel you seek. You, my Ascendant."_

  
The Prisoner's hand found the wall after a stumble, freeing him of his recollection for more immediate concerns. Breathing came harder, and with a glaze of beaded sweat, as if hoisting a great weight on his shoulders that sought to crush him. He'd harmed himself more than estimated, he knew this now, and it was that fact that coerced him to continue on. He had to get off the freighter, but that was much easier said than done. The Prisoner knew the main hangar bay was located on the current deck, but was most certainly locked down by now. However, if he could get there and access its control panel, he could use smaller expulsions of the Force to bypass the security protocols, much like he did to Warvane's elevator. There was no worry of triggering the alarms this time, as he was more than expecting interference to be waiting for him, ready to give one final greeting on his way out.

He no longer possessed the luxury of surprise, and while not a total setback, he would have to be more careful for whatever came next. Pushing off from the wall, the Prisoner spewed a trailing breath that was both hard and deep, steadying his mind, as well as his limbs, as he pressed on ahead. Stealth was his greatest weapon, and in using it, he would move as though he were the shadows, themselves. He approached each corner with consistent caution, listening for activity, and utilizing only increments of the Force to enhance his awareness. The Prisoner couldn't afford to linger long, so he had little choice but to trust his initial instincts as he crossed from one access hall to the next, giving consideration to each compartment or alcove as he breached their entrances.

His evasion paid off, even managing to avoid a patrol that trotted down a corresponding corridor. The hangar was just ahead of him now, and to his complete and utter shock, it was left unguarded. Not a soul occupied the front of the blast doors, where he imagined a large group of storm troopers should've been, already sunken into firing positions. The hangar bay held the only means off the ship, so the fact that it was unwatched left only two possibilities. One, the squads were spread thinner than he estimated, and busy trying to hunt him down, or two, this was a trap. The Prisoner liked number two.

Stepping from his concealment, he gauged what to expect, but found only a condensed hall and a pair of blast doors between him and freedom. Were they solely depending on an encrypted lock to keep him out? No. The Prisoner dismissed the thought. Warvane would know better. Another idea was that the bulk of the opposition was on the other side of the door, but he doubted that as well. The Captain would know that once inside the hangar, the Prisoner's chances of escape would only increase dramatically. Already the endless possibilities began to wear on his weakening mind, so rather than exercise patience, he decided then to speed things up, instead.

"I know you're there." The Prisoner's lips curled into a smirk, speaking with an inviting share of snide. "Come out now and I promise you'll go quicker than your friends did."

A loud metallic crunch filled the air as gears wheeled and mechanisms unlatched from each other. The durasteel halves of the blast doors shielding the hangar then fell away in separation, revealing the foreboding presence of Vendol Warvane. The Prisoner's smirk faded at the sight of the Captain, replaced with an unease that threatened to make him rethink his actions. It was clear now why there was no ambush sitting in wait, and that was because he was always the hidden secret of the Black Freighter, even from those who guarded it. The current lack of reinforcements was to limit further exposure, as well as loose ends. Fortunately, all who had seen him had been slain, save for the single Squad Commander, but the Prisoner wagered Warvane would soon correct that mistake.

  
"What do you think you're doing?!" The Captain's voice boomed with spite, and something more layered within it, something that sounded vaguely like disappointment. It was not at all like the tone one would use in speaking to an enemy, but rather...an ally. He stared on at the Prisoner from his towering height, eyes flaring with anger as his leer became the same given to a disobedient pet. Except this was no pet. It didn't cower at his feet, it stood tall. It didn't weep in shame, it exhibited little emotion, and while it might've been a man, it certainly looked as though it was ready to bite.

"What I must." The Prisoner replied, unrepentant.

"You swore fealty, boy!" Warvane scolded. "After all you've done, all that has been given to you, you're just going to sacrifice everything? This is madness,  **Zego**."

Warvane used his given name as though it would convince him to listen to reason, but that was no longer who he was, he had become than that....hadn't he? At most, it was a feeble attempt to return him to his prior path, one not born out of compassionate, nor empathy, as the Captain cared for no one. It was fear of consequence that motivated his words, should he allow this escape to pass. However, what Warvane failed to see was that the implied path had already closed. To do what Zego has done, to expose his existence, to shatter every rule he had been raised to uphold, would earn him no understanding of his motives. Even were he to return to the bowels of the freighter, the trust he earned through years of loyalty and discretion was irreparable. No, this was his only option. 

"That is  ** _not_**  my name..." The Force-User growled with cold countenance, his gaze sharp and singular as a razor.

  
"Oh? So who are you then?" The Captain inquired. "No longer his Ascendant, not if you continue this route. He will take that which you yearn most for."

"Has it not already been taken from me?" The Force-User mused aloud, as if speaking in self-reflection. "It's been nearly a year without reply or visitation. All the while I languish as forgotten, and without opportunity. What I do now, I do to ensure a future for myself,  **teacher**."

The manner in which he used the term boiled Warvane's blood with contempt, but did not rob it of its truth. While others may've assumed Zego was a fleeing prisoner, concealed from their eyes for any numbers of reasons, the Captain knew better. He'd helped trained this man since he was a boy, educating him in strategy and any number of fighting methods, save for the use of the lightsaber and the Force. All in preparation, all commanded of him. Now those years of devotion were swept away by a wind of treachery. 

"There is no future for you outside of the preordained." Warvane advised, edging slowly closer in a tensed state of calm, calling on every fiber of restraint to not lunge outward and rip the young man's head from his neck. "Return with me now, and I will not report what has occurred here. Whatever you have convinced yourself of is not true. It is not what is planned for you."

"Plans change." Zego said, less sympathetic than before. "Now move, or  _ **be moved**_."

The Captain was closer now, almost within arm's reach. It was here that he could see a noticeable advantage, hidden between the obscurity of the dark shade and distracting flashes of red emergency lighting. There was a slight hunch in the Force-User's posture, while sweat adhered to his forehead with an oily layer, and every few seconds, he'd flick his fingers, as though trying to keep them from falling asleep. His body language read like an open book, citing exhaustion that was not finished setting in. "I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised by all of this. You always did take things a step too far. Especially when it came to  ** _his_**  teachings.'' As Warvane's confidence grew, his tone darkened to the same depth. "You've overexerted yourself, boy. You're tiring."

" _You're_  right," Zego replied, releasing the relief in his voice with a full stream of breath, no longer trying to control its pace for the sake of looking stronger than he felt. "But the thing is...I don't need the Force to take you apart." In that last fleeting exchange, just as the words left his lips, Warvane was on the cusp of standing over Zego when his eyes met the Captain's with a dangerous quality, and in that instant, both knew they only had seconds to react.

  
The two struck out with simultaneous fists, crushing into the other's face so viciously that it staggered them into opposite directions. Both gave space for assessment, looking for openings to capitalize on, but found them absent due to other man's choice of fighting style. In stoic pause, they stood as a mirror of each other, living parallels taught the same methods of unarmed combat. Teräs Käsi. Their stance was slightly sunken, one leg positioned forward, and the other propped behind it for support. Both fists were balled, one extended vertically outward in contrast to the other that hung at a horizontal angle with the chin. Their stares met once more with deathly symmetry, fire radiating at their cores, lighting the furnace of hate one feels just before taking a life. They came at each other, the first series of blows evolving into a gale of timed strikes and narrow deflections, as their muscles searched for a rhythm that would offset their opponent's.

This lasted for only seconds until Zego broke contact, back-pedaling away with a feign of indecision that he knew would lure the Captain into pressing him. When Warvane took the bait, the Force-User ducked his decapitating haymaker, and rolled out to the other side where he spun off his back leg into a wheeling kick to the cheek, so hard, a click sounded in Warvane's jaw. Zego released a bestial roar as he came back to stance, chewing into his lip as battle lust filled his blood. The Captain's unbalance brought him hard into a wall, dazing his vision, but still he reactively turned to seek out his foe. By then, Zego was already bounding off the ground, following his momentum into a springing knee, that if connected, would've shattered the Captain's jawline altogether.

However, Warvane predicted this maneuver before it materialized, and upon its launch, lunged and caught the Force-User in midair, heaving his weight over his shoulder like a sack, and drove him into the opposite wall with a punishing thud. Air departed Zego's lungs with a harrowing gasp, imperiled more by the sudden pain now radiating from his ribs. The Force called to him out of desperation, tempting him to use its power, yet he defied it. Despite their current scuffle, Zego knew he couldn't kill his hulking opponent, but not because he lacked the ability. His opponent, himself, had taught it to him. The real reason was found in an extenuating circumstance located beyond the hull of the freighter, one that still had use of the Captain. 

  
Zego was on his last reserves of strength, and he knew that even if he managed to win the fight, he may not have enough left to complete his escape. Times had become their most dire, and drastic action was needed, he only hoped the cost wouldn't be too great. Gritting his teeth to suppress the pain, he waited until Warvane reeled back for another slam into the wall, and at the last possible moment, contorted his body until his boots arced against the Captain's chest plate. Gaining position, he then kicked off with an open hand and fired a Force Push that sent them rocketing separate ways. There was a brief feeling of flight that seemed to linger, until the Force-User's back met the floor in a driving slide that carried beyond the frame of the hangar's entrance.

Weary in mind, but alert enough to know he couldn't allow Warvane to rebound from the other end of the corridor, Zego immediately located the nearest control panel and channeled a burst of the Force through it, shorting its circuits in a spray of sparks that sealed the blast doors shut. Having eluded his pursuer, if only for the present, Zego robbed a moment from his shrinking timetable to take stock of his faculties. His breath came ragged, almost oppressively so, and his back felt like a Rancor had danced on it. As quickly as adrenaline had seized him in the fight, it faded just as fast, leaving him lethargic and allured by the idea of sleep. All at once, he recognized he'd reached his limit. He couldn't fight any longer, despite his willingness, but knew that if he didn't get up, all he sacrificed would be in vain.

The pitching beeps of maintenance droids drew his blurring vision to eight, black TIE-fighters that occupied the immense structure. Over the years of isolation, when he wasn't learning tolerance for new forms of pain, Zego was being taught other specialties that would aid him; such as piloting. A flight simulator was built into the lower levels for just such teachings, and in its extensive collection was nearly ever fighter class vessel at First Order disposal. He recognized the fleet he stared on as TIE / Superiority Fighters, models assigned exclusively for Special Forces, which meant the installation of hyperdrive engines inside them was a certainty. It was they that inspired an idea that returned the Force-User's snide smirk to him, and reinvigorated his resolve. They would be his way out, not just one, but all of them. Climbing to his feet through aching movements, Zego inhaled deeply and used the air to fuel a run for one of the TIE's entry hatches, where he staggered up the sloped ramp and into the black belly of the cockpit.

He hadn't the luxury of a flight suit and the plethora of life support functions that accompanied it, but at this point, Zego allowed that death by an oxygen leak was preferable to what came if he was caught. Stirring attentiveness from his eyes, he studied the onboard controls, display consoles, and gripped the yoke in his fingers, trying to establish a feel for it. He'd flown before in countless simulations, and even found that the current controls, all the way down to their pre-flight checklists, were not just familiar to the ones he tested on; they were identical. Obviously, simulations and actual space travel were vastly different in many degrees, but he wagered, or rather hoped, that his accrued training would apply. Zego looked next to the navigational components, memorizing their layout, and from there, used his memory as a blueprint to reach out with the Force to the other TIE-fighters and begin adjusting their own navi-coms, selecting hyper-routes to various worlds already programmed into the freighter's database. Their destinations didn't matter, all that did was that they were far away in distance, and even further from where he planned to go...where he must go.

"Which way did he go, which way did he go?" He scoffed in a sing-song tune, a swell of pride nudging his lips to lift. Sensing his reach begin to strain, Zego used the last exertion of his will to activate their auto-pilot functions and initiate their launch sequences, along with his own. A symphony of clunks echoed in unison throughout the hangar as support cables detached their tethers, allowing the automated ships to hover into an orderly line behind the deck's energy barrier.

A confused tech in the main control room was in a frenzy when Warvane and a grouping of troopers came storming inside. "Sir, I don't know what happened? I was busy going over the diagnostics report for the hyperdrives when the entire squadron suddenly activated their launch sequences!" The tech shouted in a haze of panic once recognizing who it was that entered.

"Can you stop them?!" Warvane fumed, aggression burning in his features.

"I-I can maybe manually override one," The tech tried to appease the infuriated officer, his fingers a blur of tapping on the instrumentation in the hope that he could. "but the others will be out of range once they hit lightspeed."

A sour blend of distress blew the Captain's gaze wide open as he found the viewport in lieu of the barrier dissolving from the broadcast of the fleet's departure signal. "The barrier! Keep up the barrier!"

"We can't!" The tech shouted out of nervous frustration. "The safety protocols won't allow it! Once the departure sequence is achieved, the barrier will stay down until all designated vessels have vacated!"

Warvane roared , throwing the tech aside like a ragdoll as his fists came down on the controls with a raging violence, smashing buttons, cracking frames, and producing plumes of smoke and sparks.The anxiety inside him that he had managed to keep subdued was now unleashed, and further provoked by the image of the TIE-fighters' thrusters as they shot off into space, until one by one, they, as well as Zego, were gone. For an extended moment, no one dared speak for fear that his fury would escalate. The Captain remained with his palms pushing heavy weight into the destroyed console, his entire body rising and falling with excessive breathing. It was only out of bold curiosity that one trooper then risked a question.

"S-Sir...do you have any orders?" The trooper asked, hesitation fracturing his speech.

Taking hold of his anger, and attempting to at least appear more composed than he felt, Warvane straightened his posture, and allowed his venting to come to an unceremonious end. He then turned to address the trooper with a calmer visage than was expected, eyeing him with tensed muscles twitching in his face. "Yes..." The Captain answered through gritted rows of teeth, as though what he was about to say begrudged him to even think about, let alone command someone to do. "Contact the Supreme Leader."


	7. PROCURERS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brilliant mercenary enacts a plan to apprehend smugglers.

 

****

**CHAPTER TWO**

**PLANET: Tozeer**

**1 Day Later**  
  
  
The deserts of Tozeer were an ocean of fire. The blinding orb of the sun stung with a cankerous heat, baking the golden dunes of grainy sand with a glimmer that stretched to the horizon. It was a place where few could live, and less could survive. What wasn’t simmering sand, was yellowed cliffs overlooking canyons, not mountainous in height or depth, but still the only sanctuary for shade from temperatures that could be witnessed boiling the air. Lanon Kinova’s boot crushed into the shifting surface from one side of a swoop bike, sinking thereafter as crusty layers poured over it. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead out of recent habit and found it dry, having forgotten that he’d just performed the same act only a moment ago. The day seemed to be getting hotter by the second, leading Lanon to question if his choice of wardrobe was indeed a wise one.

The leather jacket adorning his tan henley may’ve been smoldering to wear, and far worn of its former brown color, but its sentimental value outweighed the increase in degrees. In truth, to take it off for any reason other than sleep would’ve felt as though a betrayal was committed, a betrayal to someone he held dear long after they’d left him. Sentimentality. Some say mercenaries, the best ones, won’t last long with it. That you must think only of the mission goals, and nothing else. It was that kind of talk that particularly disturbed Lanon. It was lazy thinking, the kind that said you had to be one dimensional in order to cut it. What if being sentimental to a client’s needs bought you something in return, like loyalty? Hard men might view that as unnecessary, but Lanon saw it as being efficient, a maximizing of resources.

He knew of bounty hunters and mercenaries who had to ask others for help from time to time, and found shame in it. But why? You still had to complete the mission, and avoid whatever dangers it presented. Were they really so caught up in their own image that to ask for help came difficult? It was this reason that Lanon began to see himself as something different from the normal. He wouldn’t just build a reputation, he’d build a brand as a procurer of solutions, one that never turned away an offer just because it was too dangerous or too easy. Whatever the goal, if you were the first in line, you would stay there. It didn’t matter how wealthy the next client was. Though, in that same regard, some of the more influential customers he’d appease as pro-bono, in order to create a network of favors that would lower the risk of failure, and strengthen his standard of success.

Not surprisingly, at least to him, his career took off. In little under a decade, Lanon had rose to the upper echelon of the freelance market, the youngest to do so since the likes of Boba Fett. That wasn’t to say everything went perfect since the start. The moment he’d decided to spend his days as a soldier of fortune, Lanon knew there would be a stiff learning curve, that he would have to adapt to a life of the darker aspects. Pain. Betrayal. Death. To say he wasn’t disappointed in that hunch would be an understatement. Lanon had seen them all in his time. Everything from shot in the front by sworn enemies, to stabbed in the back by supposed friends. It was a part of the business, and like many businesses, sometimes you have to bleed for your craft. It was that same craft that brought him to the current wasteland, and his hunt for the smugglers that hid within it. He recalled the briefing like it was etched into his skin. Reclaim the stolen cargo before resale, eliminate the smugglers if necessary.

It sounded easy enough, but it was funny how often the easy jobs could become the most catastrophic in the blink of an eye. This one was no different. He’d only been tracking them for little over two weeks, and to his surprise, the group was rather cunning at keeping their operation a secret. They took longer hyper-routes, and gambled on staying close to the Outer Rim, just on the edge of the Unknown Regions, where any number of privateers could’ve hijacked their cargo, as well as their lives. Yet, in utilizing such tactics, they exposed numerous traits about themselves. One in particular was the necessity to be overly careful, and with that, face the sting of fear that was tethered to it. To draw out men such as this, you had to present them with something that would alleviate their ills and increase their confidence to succeed higher than ever before, and that was exactly what Lanon did.

Bringing his other leg over the seat of his swoop bike, the mercenary steadied himself among the mounds and stared into the long expanse of his macrobinoculars. At the end of its magnified sight, nine men took residence in a colossal cave opening, nine armed smugglers to be exact. Most were entrenched with manually operating utility lifts , doing their best to hurry along production of some sort. A Republic Transport sat patiently under the cave’s towering entrance, its engines humming in neutral, and the rear ramp extended hospitably to the dusty floor.

The smugglers' intentions were now a bit clearer. The transport was a fake, but a convincing one to even the best trained eye. They were among the few vessels in the galaxy that could travel virtually unbothered by patrols, provided they possessed the proper shipping registration and navigational codes, which was easier and easier to come by these days. Especially if you stole them. By the time the codes were reported and processed as a theft, it would be too late. The thieves would reach their destination, complete their transaction, and find alternate means back to their rendezvous point. It would also explain the haste they endured to stock the cargo. Judging by the speed at which they loaded the stolen goods, their window was closing soon, maybe a day at most. Lanon liked the fact that they were rushing, and the feeling showed as a curled smirk. It meant their guard would be so wide open that it might as well be one of the canyons around him.

A small cyan light started blinking on Lanon’s electronic belt-buckle, alerting him of an incoming transmission that was only one its many uses, besides holding up his pants. He pressed on it, and in the next second, a brutish, almost bestial voice spoke, deeply seeded by frustration.

“Lanon. You read me? Speak up already!” It was his co-pilot Neevog, a Noghri by birth, a mercenary-mechanic by profession, and a jerk by choice. The two of them had first met on a joint mission to storm the heavily protected fortress of a baron in the Eskar System. The baron had crossed the Hutt Syndicate one too many times over business dealings, forcing them to happily put a price on his head. The team originally consisted of over thirty of the galaxy's best and ugliest, but when it was all said and done, Lanon and Neevog were the only two left hunching in pain. What started as a timid alliance that day had turned into a decade long partnership, one that both regretted ever since.

“Yeah, I read you.” Lanon replied, still staring into the macrobinoculars.

“Do you have any idea how much sand you sucked into the air intake with that crap landing spot? I told you the repulsors have been glitchy since the last run, we needed to land on a hard surface. The Sylvan Sparrow will be spitting that grainy dust for weeks!” Neevog shouted from his end of the com-link within a shaded area of an undisclosed ship, his clawed hands hard at work trying to wrench open the hatch of the air intake’s ventilation chamber. “You got any idea how hard it is to fix a ship that’s one of a kind!?”

“It can’t be any harder than having to listen to you whine about it.” Lanon quipped, dryly.

“You know, I could always leave you here. Call me crazy, but I think the galaxy would survive losing one more self-entitled ingrate and his pet tin can.”

“Good, you learned to joke. Now learn to fix the Sparrow. Oh, and that “tin can” has been kinda crucial to this mission, on top of saving your life before, so lay off **Lunchbox**.”

“I saw that missile coming a mile away! A MILE, I tell ya! I was just distracted from all the...the...bleeding out.” Neevog gruffly protested, still wrenching at the hatch’s valve handle, hate fueling his enthusiasm to get it open. “And the only joke here is how much you charge for us to risk our lives. We barely made enough to make repairs after the pursuit through the asteroid field.”

“You think we should charge more?” Lanon asked.

“You don’t?” Neevog retorted.

“Not for your life.” Lanon smiled, knowing the effect his words would have on the Noghri’s bad temperament. “Listen, I have visual of the targets and I’m about to engage. Any words of encouragement?”

“I hope they blow your head in half!” Neevog forced speech through gritted fangs as he ripped, turned, pulled, anything to jar loose the hatch’s seal.

“Love you too, buddy. Lanon. Out.” The mercenary said dismissively, signing off.

As he heard the link fall silent, Neevog had just released his grip of the handle, firing a number of muffled expletives when the grind of the hatch’s seal lumbered apart. For one joyous instant, he felt relief usher in and his fury subside, right up until the moment the heft of sand already lodged against the door pushed its way free, pouring down on the Noghri’s head in a deluge that gave his anger voice in the form of a cringe.

After cutting the com, Lanon activated his swoop bike and launched into a long arc around the cave, keeping far from view until he banked to the base of its rear. He took to foot from there, scaling the rocky terrain with shallow steps and short jumps until he was near the opening. Moving to a position of concealment behind a large rock formation, Lanon’s sharp blue eyes peeked from cover, just enough to identify a little more of the cave’s layout, as well as the activity within it.

“Hurry it up, hutt-lickers! If we don’t get this shipment outta here in the next couple hours, we’ll miss our delivery window, and then I’ll personally take a pound of flesh from each and every one of you.” A curly, red-haired smuggler barked in a raspy tone, revealing that he may hold a rank of some sort among the criminals.

  
“You got it, Belsic!” Yelled one smuggler as he and his comrades now moved with more insistent pace. Their time for departure was limited, as was Lanon’s if he wanted to stop them, but he knew he could do little until he was closer. A distraction was needed, something to take all attention away from the entrance, if only for a second or two. He wouldn’t need more than that. Peering for more options, something suddenly caught his gaze. An oil drum, most likely acquired to bath droids in to remove contaminants, sat off to the far side of the transport. The sight of it brought a subtle grin to Lanon’s lips that only he knew why.

Belsic, the smuggler leader, now rested comfortably atop it, currently using its lid as a seat while he puffed away on a half-smoked cigarra. Fixing his eyes on his target, Lanon reached down to his belt buckle and unclasped it from the band. Pressing on its centerpiece, a faint green light blinked on and initiated the extension of dual curving wings from the buckle’s sides. The same green glow then reflected in the mercenary’s eyes, acknowledging that a connective uplink had been achieved. The  **Psy-Rang**  was one of Lanon’s more ingenius inventions, capable of reading the bearer’s thoughts by way of contact lenses that tapped into the neural pathways of the eyes. When thrown, the built-in thrusters would ignite, accelerating the weapon as the relay from the lenses guided it into whatever direction Lanon desired.  
  
Biding his time until he was certain all eyes were elsewhere, Lanon broke cover just long enough to whip the psy-rang into flight. Guided by his mental signals, the weapon’s thrusters flared on as it throttled towards its target with almost blinding speed. It smacked the drum with a bevy of force, capsizing it beneath Belsic just as he began a deep draw of smoke, and spilled out its contents in a thick wave of liquid black. The smuggler leader hit almost directly after, landing painfully hard, his arm splashing into the dark pool as he did so. In all the confusion of how his midair romp occurred, he’d lost all track of where his cigarra had flown to. Little did he know, it would only take a second before he knew the answer.  
  
The cigarra’s warm, ashy tip followed closely behind until hitting softly into the oil spill. In no time at all, the liquid mineral set ablaze, consuming every inch of its own body in a singeing wave of burning fire, including the human arm that lay within it. The smuggler leader cried out with a painful scream that echoed throughout the span of the cavern, capturing the attention of all in the near vicinity. The smuggler hectically scrambled to his feet in clumsy fashion, flailing and whipping at his flaming arm with his other hand, trying desperately to smother the flames that now charred his flesh. Immediately, the majority of his fellowmen dropped what they were doing to run and assist their superior, and the ones that didn’t, kept their gawking stares firmly affixed on the scene playing out.   
  
Lanon broke cover again and rushed the cave’s opening, reaching inside his jacket with one hand, as he extended the other to catch and reattach the psy-rang to his belt. When the former returned, it came with a modified version of a DL-44 heavy blaster from a hidden holster, primed and aimed on the run. Lanon fired as he came behind the protection of another rock formation, striking one of the unaware smugglers in the shoulder, and collapsing him instantly.There was a single, surmounting shiver that ran the span of each smuggler’s spine as another of their crew hit the ground in agony. They hadn’t even put out Belsic’s arm yet, and now it appeared they were under attack.   
  
Giving into the frantic hysteria of their circumstance, those of the smugglers that were armed yielded to their baser instincts and began firing wildly around the enclosure of the cave, unable to locate their attacker. Lanon smirked proudly as the mineral walls around him were peppered with blasts of red bolts, filling the space with a cacophony of light and sound, some of which hit dangerously close to his position, while others were embarrassingly far off. To this point, everything was going according to plan. The mercenary didn’t need to take them all out by himself, he just needed them to get desperate, so desperate that they’d seek a way to end things quickly.   
  
Fanning the last traces of flames from his cooked flesh, Belsic angrily rose up to one elbow and pulled a subordinate who had been trying to help him down to ear level. “Someone’s attacking us! Go turn on the thing!” The smuggler leader barked, wincing thereafter from his burns.  
  
Acting swiftly on his orders, the subordinate ducked his head and carried into a hesitant sprint inside the Republic Transport’s loading bay, his feet fumbling beneath him as his heart drummed with the fear that he may catch a stray bolt. Once inside, he rushed to the back portion of the ship, where an obscured object sat in a corner, shadowed by the height of stacked cargo crates. A cloth tarp lay over it, withholding its features until the subordinate ripped it off with a nervous grab of his hand. What could be distinguished from the veil of shade that still cloaked the object was humanoid in appearance, and was about to become much more defined. “Activate!” The smuggler shouted to the shrill peak of his voice. Movement then gave way to life, as the resonance of rotational gears and spinning servomotors allowed the head of the object to adjust upright, lighting the shade with a multitude of glowing blue orbs and two very narrow eye slits. 

 

  

 

Lanon kept his patience, only popping up to retaliate in order to keep the pressure on, but as time passed, and more of the terrain disintegrated around him, doubt of his plan’s effectiveness began to set in. He was just starting to reassess when the barrage of blaster fire halted and was replaced by a solemn quiet, prompting the mercenary to investigate. Stretching one eye past the safety the formation provided, Lanon witnessed the smugglers had adopted his strategy, but rather than finding a large enough rock, they grouped together behind a single droid that stood front and center of Belsic.  
  
The droid was an impressive piece of innovation. It stood at a formidable height of over two meters, its exoskeleton taking inspiration from thicker human characteristics like the old 3PO units rather than the flimsy frames of current models. A thick layer of modular-plating, bathed the darkest tint of cyan, guarded its inner circuitry, data processors, and other crucial components. The droid’s head was large and slanted downward from a bulbous hump that sat atop a flat screen of transparent duraglass, protecting the machine’s photo-receptors and speech functions. Its joints and chest plate brandished circular devices that gave off a soft blue light, acting as part reinforcement from damage, and part condenser for the sizable power flow that conducted throughout each limb.   
  
“Whoever you are out there, I suggest you listen up!” Belsic’s voice boomed, helped by the cave’s echo. “This, here, is A9L8, a state-of-the-art battle droid! We bought him off the underground market for just such an occasion. It’s armor is a lightweight blend of cortosis, which can stand up to small arms fire of any kind, which includes yours, tough guy. On top of that, it’s programmed with over 30 forms of hand to hand and melee combat. Give up now, and maybe we’ll leave you stranded on this big rock until you die of thirst! Don’t, and our droid friend will find you and gut you like a woolly pig!” The smuggler leader snickered at his own threat, feeling the tables had turned increasingly in their favor. This thought was confirmed when open hands suddenly rose up from behind a rock formation near the cave’s entrance. A man in his late twenties stepped into view, his head of buzzed blonde hair lowered in surrender as he approached the group slowly, so as not to provoke them any further than he already had.  
  
“So you’re the guy.” Belsic seethed, the pain of his burns still fresh and abundant. “Who are you, a hunter, a merk?”  
  
Lanon kept his head humbled as he spoke with an air of respect for his new captors. “Bit of both, sir. Nothing to trouble yourself with. After all, there is a surrender that needs to take place.” His voice cracked nervously on the last word, as though hoping the offer was still on the table.  
  
“Oh yeah?” Belsic scoffed dryly, his tone shifting with an ingrained deceit. “Well, maybe I’ve changed my mind? Maybe I’ll just have A9L8 a-nni-hil-ate you? How’s that sound?” A chorus of sinister chuckles rang out from smugglers, all of which seemed to approve of the idea.  
  
“Well,” Lanon paused to compose his response delicately. “I guess I’d have to say…you’re wrong. On two things, actually.” The mercenary's head abruptly rose his head, revealing that it wasn’t fear that weighed it down, but an attempt to conceal a wide smile, as well as the overpowering humor that strengthened it. “One being that the surrender I was referring to, was yours." Lanon continued confidently, laughter threatening to break free from his mouth. "And the second mistake was he’s not a battle droid. His design is actually based off an assassin droid. Isn’t that right, Lunchbox?”  
  
Seconds before Belsic could even comprehend what was happening, the droid answered with a gravelly: “Yes, master.” and then proceeded to spin in place, grip Belsic by the throat, and hoist him off his feet with the ease of lifting a pillow. The other smugglers gave immediate space between them and the traitorous machine, jumping back from their leader and having a mind to shower Lunchbox with bolts, when a fast reaction from Lanon froze them just in time.  
  
“Whoa, whoa! I wouldn’t do that, boys!” The mercenary warned impatiently, throwing up a hand to signal all involved to wait. “It takes twelve pounds of pressure to collapse the double-action trigger such as the ones on those rifles of yours. That gives you a window of roughly three seconds to act and absorb the recoil before the next shot, and that's not counting the time needed to, ya know,  _ **aim**_  your shot so you don't  ** _kill_**  your boss while trying to save him." Lanon gave a mocking flick of his hand to emphasize the mistake nearly committed. "By then, Lunchbox would already be on you. Trust me when I say you wouldn’t stand a chance if one of those guns barks fire now. Best you take this one on the chin, rather than a metal fist through your chest.”  
  
The rabble of criminals didn’t linger very long before doing what was commanded of them. A glance at the towering assassin droid was more reason than they needed. One after the next disarmed themselves of any weapons they possessed. Everything from blasters to boot knives struck different areas of the dirt. From there they converged slowly to the ground, where each laid on their chest with their hands bound behind their back, as though they were keenly familiar with the process. Lanon kept both his vision and blaster alert as he studied the men’s movements. It wasn’t likely with how easily they submitted that one of them would risk a sneak attack, but then again, stupidity rarely had a limit.  
  
With the greater bulk of the men subdued, Lanon then gave Lunchbox a nod, who without delay, dropped Belsic down on his rear. Oxygen swelled the smuggler leader’s throat, entering and leaving his mouth through hacking breaths of deprivation. Once gathering himself enough to speak, Belsic turned to Lanon, then Lunchbox, and back, confusion plaguing his bloodshot eyes. “H-How...y-you...?” Was the only hoarse reply he could summon for the time, but Lanon already knew what he was asking.  
  
“You said you bought him on the underground market, right? Well, who do you think sold him? I denied all other buyers once I identified your men during the bidding process, then it was just a matter of setting the price to your liking, and tracking tall, dark, and shiny back to this world. I knew I couldn’t take you all by myself, so I decided an alternate means to win. Fear. It does the worst things to our judgment, doesn’t it? See, I knew if I could get you desperate enough, you’d feel inclined to activate your new toy. From there, the odds didn’t really matter. Lunchbox would’ve torn you all apart inside a minute.” Lanon’s eyes drew playfully to the chrono on his wrist and feigned shock from what he saw. “Oh, but look at me. I’ve wasted enough of your precious time. You’ve got a date with a prison sentence. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Lanon then delivered a couple of soft pats to Belsic’s chubby cheeks to further cement his defeat, before then stepping away to and activating his com-link. “Neevog, we’re done here. Come pick us up.”


	8. DESCENT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A old farmer on a far away planet has an unexpected visitor to his land.

   

****

**CHAPTER THREE**

**PT. 1 of 3**

  **PLANET: Khoden**

**Tetrin Farm**

 

**Cole Tetrin**  was lost in what the night would present him. His stare clung to the saccharine glow of the stars that dotted the night, studying their shine, evaluating their numbers, but above all else, beckoning them to show him  ** _more_**. A shooting star was his hope most evenings, a fleeting sign that there were still things to be admired in a galaxy far, far away from perfect. It became his motivation each evening, to find a reason to withhold hate towards the way things were, and for the way they always seemed to be. It was a cynical point of view, Cole knew it, but he also knew he didn't give a damn. Life can rip your will from your body in a single day, as he learned so long ago…

  
That was why he climbed the steep slope of his plastoid hut now, ignoring the arthritic ache in his knees, so he could find a comfortable seat and allow his peer to soar. Cole relied on the submission of it, the release of all his concerns into the wonder of the glinting black sky, until their inevitable return in the new day. It was a ritual he first began practicing in the icy trenches of Hoth, during those few quiet moments his attention would slip to the only light on a frigid world of shearing winds and crystal white powder. He justified the waver of discipline as any soldier would during war, the uncertainty of not knowing how many chances he'd have left to do so. Each night could’ve been his last, so that meant finding some semblance of hope was always high in demand.   
  
_Thirty years._  The thought hit him. Had it really been that long? His eyes fell with a measure of disbelief, sifting the evanescent pictures of his tour of duty. “How are you still kick’in you old bastard?” He asked himself, unable to return a reply.  
  
Cole was close to seventy now, but felt twice that amount. He felt it in his back when he woke up, he felt it in his joints when he walked, and he felt it all over after working the fields. His hands appeared so frail as he lifted them for inspection. Dry and creased like old fruit, their tips, calloused from hard labor, and a slight shake adhered to the way they moved. They were the utensils of an elder, not the strapping rebel he recalled himself being. The man he saw now in every reflection was a beaten down wreck, the leftover scraps of someone better. His hair, while still long and silken, had been ebbed by time, robbed of its youthful color everywhere except his bushy eyebrows. A wispy mustache now occupied his upper lip, grown solely because Cole got too damn tired of shaving it. His features had sagged inches from where they used to be, most noticeably on his jowls, and his eyes seemed to maintain perpetual bags at their base.   
  
His goal was no longer the collapse of the Galactic Empire as it was during his service, which was accomplished, despite how short-lived it might've been. It didn't surprise him to hear some years later that the fractured dictatorship had reformed into a new entity, even when ranging over three decades after the Battle of Yavin. It was always there, a lesson the ages had taught all cultures over and over again, yet never seemed to stick. You could break tyranny a thousand different ways, but eventually, someone will just come along to pick up the pieces. These particular architects christened their forces The First Order, and just like in years previous, conflict and bloodshed once again choked the galaxy.  
  
After the long campaign, Cole returned to his home world of Khoden, a planet that shared the same name as the system, as well as its neighboring star. Its orbit was found within a remote region of space, a long commute into the Instrop Sector of the Outer Rim, where only three other planets composed its territory. Its terrain was predominantly terrestrial, posturing a lush wealth of forests that grew in the colossal shadows of scenic mountains. Khoden’s population was spread out among many settlements, with the closest thing to government consisting of a cooperative council made up of one representative from each community. It was here that Cole built a new purpose for himself…and his family.  
  
He'd seen more than his fill of combat, so using that skill set for personal gain garnered little interest, but rather than appealing to the heavens for an answer, Cole looked to the ground instead. Khoden’s soil was documented to be excessively rich on a nutrient scale, capable of growing nearly any source of vegetation from dry climate fruits to rain-heavy vegetables. It was this reason that countless industries and traders alike fought tooth and nail to acquired its land, some rumors even suggesting blackmail and murder as means to do so. The income produced, especially when tended with the proper amount of manufacturing, could range anywhere in the million credit market. Fortunately or unfortunately, Cole had neither the tolerance, nor the means to enter such a rat race. Passed down from his ancestors, he'd had long retained ownership of over 400 acres of territory, spanning what numerous testing deemed the most fertile ground on the entire planet. An attraction that inevitably led competitors to seductive offers of purchase.  
  
As expected, Cole paid them no mind, refuting each offer with a charmed suggestion of exit, or a singeing bolt from his WESTAR-66 blaster, ironically titled  _Civil_. Paranoia took precedent from there, leading him to question if he could risk hiring a farm hand and trust they wouldn't betray him to a secret benefactor. Cole decided he couldn't, and chose to work the land by himself, well into his golden age. For better or worse, that became his routine. He'd mind the fields of Yaeger Sugar Cane during the baking heat of the day, and at night, he returned to his roof, searching the stars for elusive comfort. It was a purpose, a good one, but it wasn't what drove him to succeed, to not abstain from giving constant effort.  ** _T_** _ **hat**_  reason was sleeping now beneath the ceiling that Cole currently occupied, safe from the worries that his Grandfather endured regularly.   
  
It was his grandson. Naudo. He was still so young, too young to even be of use tending the farm. That thought, on top of numerous self-criticisms, made Cole even more bitter at how he’d aged so quickly. What would happen if he passed unexpectedly? Who would take care of the boy, of their home? It wasn't enough that he had to provide for himself when he barely could, but fate also decided another life would depend on him, all because he wasn't there when it counted most. He wasn't there when Naudo's parents and brother were…  
  
A swell of something brought weight to the farmer’s breath, catching it in his throat as flashes of the past appeared and vanished before his eyes could relive them. He knew what was trying to be seen, every detail of it had been etched into his soul like scripture, condemning him for his failure. Why wasn't he there? The question stalked him in every moment, no matter what challenge awaited Cole with the farm or on the trail, it was there, demanding an answer he couldn't find in over ten years of searching. However many days he had left on this plane, Cole knew he would spend them looking for that elusive answer, hoping and praying that some day he would finally have the  _ **more**_ he sought.  
  
Lifting his eyes back to the stars for solace, a glinting movement alleviated the old man from his contemplation, drawing his head to a different region of the sky. Far above him, a traveling light streamed through the vagaries of the atmosphere at an incalculable distance. For the slightest of moments, Cole allowed himself to believe it was the very sight he had sat there for, until suspicion weighed his brow down to a squint. Its speed seemed odd, moving slower than that of a shooting star, and rather than streaking past the planet, it was looping---looping toward it!


End file.
